


only the sweetest words remain

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (for the last bit), (mostly at the beginning when jon's still figuring things out), Ace Flavor: Sex Repulsed, Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ace Week!, Holding Hands, Internalized Acephobia, Kissing, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: This isn't how things are supposed to go, right? Jon remembers those ratty paperbacks from the charity shops, dime-a-dozen romance novels with broken bindings and yellowing pages and words that spoke of love and passion and sexuality in prose that was more than a bit too mature for someone whose age hadn’t yet reached double digits. Stolen glances turn into dinner dates turn into passionate kisses turn into…Well, he’d never actually read those parts of the books, because it had all seemed so deeply uncomfortable and gross. But he got the picture.Or, Jonathan Sims, on being loved
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 32
Kudos: 296
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist, tma fics





	only the sweetest words remain

**Author's Note:**

> Happy ace week! It's so wonderful to finally have an asexual character that I can write about and explore aspects of relationships that I can actually relate to. So, this fic only felt natural for me to write. I hope you enjoy :)

The first time they have sex, it’s… weird.

Jon doesn’t mean to say it out loud when Georgie asks him after, a bit breathless, how he is. How he feels. But it’s all so _much,_ and his brain is tumbling through a myriad of emotions and thoughts and feelings that are overwhelmingly, he thinks, _not_ how someone is supposed to feel after they… but he- he’d never done this before, so he just doesn’t _know,_ does he, how he’s supposed to feel, whether he was supposed to be more enthusiastic when Georgie had slipped free from her blouse, if- if something was supposed to _happen_ when—

So, it slips out through the cracks that are forming in Jon’s composure, and Georgie goes still next to him. He stiffens too, instinctively, as his brain finally catches up to his mouth and reality reasserts itself within him.

“Oh, god,” he says, because _oh, god, that’s not what you’re supposed to **say** when you’ve just had sex with someone._ “Georgie, I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I mean, it- it was…”

He struggles for the right words, the ones that will break the tension he can taste on his tongue, hot and bitter. They don’t come. Guilt and mortification curl in his stomach in equal measure, and he suddenly feels very, very exposed. “I… I’m going to go,” he says, in a voice so very small and vulnerable that tries and fails not to sound profoundly ashamed, and moves to slip free from the sheets.

A hand closes around his wrist. “Jon, wait, just- just _wait,_ okay?”

Jon lets out a small, shaking breath and turns back, half-expecting to see that frown that Georgie gets when her favorite takeaway place is out of green curry, or when the Admiral chews through yet another leaf on an ill-placed plant, or when she wakes to the harsh patter of rain on the roof and mutters something about ‘smelling like a wet dog’ and having to walk to class in rain boots just a bit too small for her. Instead, her forehead is creased in concern. It pairs starkly with the flush still coloring her cheeks, and it brings a new wave of shame crashing down on him.

Georgie must be able to see it on his face, because her voice is reassuring yet firm when she says, “I’m not _mad_ at you for- for not liking the sex, okay?”

Jon’s face goes hot, and he stammers, “I- I never _said_ I didn’t- I, I don’t know why you would think that—“ even as he knows, somewhere under the indignation and the shame and the guilt, that it’s _true._ It was weird, and not in a way that ignited a desire for more. It was weird in a _no thanks._ In a _never again._ In a sort of visceral discomfort that had probably been there from the beginning but had been stuffed securely beneath his own resolve to not mess this up, to not be a cause for _concern._ Because things were good, right? They’d been together for a few months, friends for much longer than that, and things were- things were _great._

And now, things are weird.

Jon realizes, belatedly, that he’s stopped talking, had just let the aborted sentences hang there in the air like half-deflated balloons, shriveled and without purpose yet unable to sink fully beyond notice. He can’t quite meet Georgie’s eyes as he repeats, in a quiet voice, “I… I’m sorry, Georgie.”

Georgie sighs, and takes one of his hands in hers. She rubs the back of it, like she always does when he’s stressing about exams—because he’s always held tension in his hands, curling them into fists when he’s anxious, tapping his fingers on desks and fiddling with pencils and cracking his knuckles almost obsessively—and says, “Jon, it’s fine. _Really._ This isn’t something I would ever hold against you—you know that, right?”

Jon doesn’t look at her.

The sigh is heavier this time. “Right.” One of her hands moves to the side of his face and gently guides it up, so he can see the open, ever-patient expression on her face. “Jonathan Sims, I love you. As a friend, and as a boyfriend, and as everything in between. Whether or not we have sex—that doesn’t change that, okay?”

But that’s not how things are supposed to go, right? Jon remembers those ratty paperbacks from the charity shops, dime-a-dozen romance novels with broken bindings and yellowing pages and words that spoke of love and passion and sexuality in prose that was more than a bit too mature for someone whose age hadn’t yet reached double digits. Stolen glances turn into dinner dates turn into passionate kisses turn into…

Well, he’d never actually read those parts of the books, because it had all seemed so deeply uncomfortable and _gross._ But he got the picture.

So, he doesn’t know how Georgie can sit here and look at him so dearly and cup his cheek with soft, warm hands still sticky with residual sweat and tell him that sex is _optional._ His voice is still a bit cracked with nerves when he says, “I- I don’t understand why I don’t…” He swallows once, in an effort to smooth the tension from his throat. “I suppose I thought it would get easier. That I would… would finally understand, if we- god, Georgie, I- I am _so sorry_ —”

“ _Jon._ ” Georgie fixes him with a hard stare that could bring dictators to their knees. “Please, stop apologizing. You really don’t need to.” She’s overcome by a yawn, and Jon feels a similar exhaustion dragging him down, beneath the swirling emotions on the surface. Voice groggy with sleep, she says, “I want to keep talking about this with you, okay? But it’s late, and I think some time to think will help. So, do what you need to get comfortable, and let’s go to bed, and we can talk in the morning. Does that sound okay?”

Jon’s stomach is still a knot of nerves, and his skin is still prickling with an uncomfortable vulnerability that’s only half-attributed to his state of undress, and he’s still not sure that everything is, in fact, _okay._ Still, he sees the reassurance in Georgie’s eyes, the small, hopeful smile she gives him, a mirror of the larger ones that accompany his dry jokes and dramatic recreations of the conversation he’d heard on the quad and offers to make brownies when her week takes a turn for the worse, and finds it within him to relax, if only slightly.

“Okay,” he says, and tries for a smile that he knows doesn’t quite hit the mark. “In the morning.”

He retrieves a pair of flannel pajama pants, and Georgie curls tighter under the blankets, and sleep finds its way to both of them in the end.

In the morning, they talk. And they research.

“Oh,” Jon says, a quiet reverence in his voice. “I- I’m asexual.”

It nestles home in his heart, sliding in next to the guilt that still clings tightly to him, the worry that tells him that finding a reason won’t matter. That it’ll still ruin things in the end.

It feels like a breath of relief just the same.

* * *

“So,” Tim says, perching on the edge of Jon’s desk where it sits snugly in the corner of the Research wing and nearly knocking over a stack of books he’s currently using to research the Klieber case, “how do you feel about Chinese food?”

Jon looks up from his computer, his workflow thoroughly interrupted, with an expression somewhere between annoyance and confusion flitting across his face. “Like… in general, or…?”

Tim laughs, and the sound floats through Jon like the tinkling of Christmas bells, bringing with it that same rush of excitement and joy he would get on Christmas morning, when his grandmother would make them hot apple cider and would take him to the bookstore so he could pick out whatever he liked, as she had long since given up trying to predict what books he might enjoy. A warmth rises through him and pools in his cheeks, and he looks back at his computer, staring at the documents there with feigned studiousness.

“I meant for dinner,” Tim says, like it’s something they always do. Which it’s not. Not that Jon wouldn’t- wouldn’t _like_ it if it was, he’s just… he always thought that Tim would rather spend time with Sasha, or maybe Valerie from Artifact Storage who he always sees Tim talking to in the break room, his smile wide and his eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Jon?”

Jon startles back to the present and realizes that he’s been staring at his computer screen long enough for it to have gone dark, and that Tim’s asked him a question. His cheeks flush fully as he says, a bit awkwardly, “I, er. Yes?”

He means it as a question, but Tim flashes him that same bright, Stoker-patented smile and says, “Great! I have to take care of some things in the library, but I’ll meet you outside at six?”

Dinner. It’s… it’s probably just dinner. So, after a moment’s hesitation, Jon nods, which only seems to make Tim’s smile wider. “It’s a date!” he says with a cheeky wink, before pushing off Jon’s desk and walking away, and _wait,_ _a date?_

Jon half-stands, like he’s going to chase after Tim, to say… well, to say what, he’s not quite sure. So he sits back down, and stares at his computer screen blankly and with his face still flushed and heart still beating too-fast, and knows there’s absolutely _no_ way he’s regaining his focus. Not when he can still feel the weight of that smile, twisting his stomach into knots.

The Chinese is okay. The gentle, almost tentative kiss Tim gives him after he walks him back to his flat, standing in the hallway with his keys already in the lock, is much, much better.

So then Jon’s dating Timothy Stoker. And it’s as easy as breathing, to go to that café on the corner for their lunch breaks, and to take the Tube home after work and watch movies on Tim’s couch, and to steal soft kisses in those quiet moments when Jon least expects it. But even as happiness makes its roots in Jon’s chest, blossoming with every word and smile and touch, nervousness sets in in kind, because…

Because, well, Jon hasn’t been with anyone since Georgie. And Tim is charismatic and flirty and clearly feels quite differently about sex than Jon does, and Jon shouldn’t be nervous. He really shouldn’t be, because Tim is also sweet and kind and always knows the right thing to say—unlike Jon, who’s made this kind of situation terribly awkward before. It _should_ be easy to just- to just _say_ that he doesn’t like sex, but every time the opportunity presents itself—in a casual joke, in one of the romantic comedies Tim insists they watch, in those moments of silence as they just _exist_ within each other—Jon just… can’t. So he lets the days go by and lets the anxiousness pool in the bottom of his stomach and waits for the day the dam will burst.

That day, apparently, is today. Because Tim has made butter chicken and homemade naan bread, using that long-grain rice he knows Jon likes, for no other reason than the fact that Jon had offhandedly mentioned missing his grandmother’s cooking on their commute home the day before. Because Tim’s talking about that new museum exhibit with the Grecian pottery and would Jon like to go, because he knows that Jon had taken a special interest in that case about the old terracotta tea kettle that had, apparently, only produced boiling blood when filled. Because Tim’s been listening to Jon talk about Grecian ceremonial sacrifice for the past thirty minutes, his chicken growing cold as he loses himself to the discussion, with a smile softer than Jon’s ever seen on his face.

Because Jon realizes, quite suddenly, that he loves Timothy Stoker. And so the next words that come out of his mouth, quite by accident, rather than a comment about the specific offerings preferred by Athena, are, “I don’t like sex.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut around the words, and, for a terrifying moment, there’s just silence, punctuated by the gentle whirring of the fan that sits above Tim’s sink. He barely has time to wish the words back into himself, though, before Tim says slowly, “… Okay.”

The dam breaks, and in a rush Jon says, “It’s- it’s really not- it’s not because I don’t, don’t _like_ you or- or anything, it’s just- I just didn’t want you to think that I’m not happy, because I _am_ , I- god, I am, and I don’t want to ruin it, because I love you and I just- I know that _you_ want to- although, I- I suppose I shouldn’t _assume_ , but it’s always seemed like you would, and I- I didn’t want to—”

“ _Jon._ ” Tim’s hand is on Jon’s, bringing it down from where it had been gesturing with increasing intensity and squeezing it gently. “It’s okay. I promise.”

Jon thinks back to Georgie, so long ago, looking at him with those same kind eyes and telling him those same reassuring words, and feels a part of him relax slightly. Still, he feels a curl of nervousness as he asks, quietly, “So, are we… do you still want to be… with me?”

Tim laughs, just a puff of air through his nose. “Of _course_. Yeah, I enjoy having sex. But it’s far from a deal breaker if we don’t.” He pauses then, and a look halfway between realization and mortification crosses his face. “Oh, Christ, the _jokes_. Have- have I been making you uncomfortable, all this time? Oh, I’m an idiot.”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine, I- I mean, I probably should have said something a long time ago, but it- it never felt like the right time.” Something within Jon tells him that this was hardly the _right time_ anyway; he steadfastly ignores it, because the words are already out in the open, and Tim—

And Tim is cupping the side of his face, a thumb brushing a stray curl back from his forehead. “Well, I’m glad you _did_ tell me,” he says with a small smile. Then, his eyes flit downward, to Jon’s mouth, and he says, “Is kissing still okay?”

Jon’s face flushes with heat, and to cover it up, he says a bit brusquely, “Yes, Tim, I _have_ been kissing you for some time now—”

And then Tim’s mouth is on his, stealing the words from his lips, and Jon feels warmth spread the rest of the way through him.

Then, Tim pulls back with a strange, giddy expression on his face. “Hold on, did you just say you _love_ me?”

“I. Uh. Maybe?”

Tim’s smile is wide and joyous, and a bit disbelieving. “Well, I love you too.” His smile turns teasing. “ _Maybe._ ”

Tim captures Jon’s noise of disgruntled protest with another kiss, and the last of the tension in Jon’s chest evaporates like water in sunlight.

* * *

It’s cold in Scotland, so they’ve put wood in the fireplace and made steaming mugs of tea and curled up on the couch under a thick woven blanket Daisy had tucked away in a cabinet. It’s big enough to cover Martin, sat at one end, and Jon, leaned against the armrest on the other end with his knees tucked to his chest and a book settled on his lap—a crisp mystery novel that sent up a small cloud of dust when Jon had removed it from the shelf, apparently never opened. Not that that surprised him; Daisy didn’t seem the sort to settle down long enough to commit to a novel. Maybe she’d imagined a time, someday, when she could, and had placed little bits of that desire in the spaces she occupied.

Or, perhaps it’s just a book. One with trite characterizations and oversimplified plots that make Jon’s nose wrinkle, but a book all the same. And entertainment is… lacking, in a safehouse.

Martin’s working on his poetry. Jon can hear the gentle scratch of pen on paper, the occasional hum or titter as Martin finds something out of place and deftly crosses it out. He’d asked, once, back in the Archives, why Martin didn’t just use a pencil. Martin had turned pink, muttering something about ‘aesthetics’ and ‘permanence’ and ‘commitment’, and Jon had let the matter drop.

Now, watching Martin ink careful letters on the yellowing paper of the journal he keeps so close to him, the last scraps of the Lonely evident in the pale grey of his eyes and the white streaks through his hair that almost mirror Jon’s, Jon thinks that maybe Martin just doesn’t want any other parts of himself to be erased.

Martin lets out a particularly frustrated noise, and his pen makes a rapid scratching sound as he crosses something out with vigor. With a small smile on his face, Jon says, “That bad?”

“Ugh, just- just lacking inspiration, that’s all.” Martin glares at the notebook like it’s personally offended him. His forehead furrows along pre-determined lines, and Jon wants to reach over and smooth them out. Then, with a little jolt akin to that of a shock of static electricity, he realizes that he can now. That Martin’s _here,_ and Jon can touch him, and they’re safe. So, he does. His thumb brushes lightly against Martin’s forehead, in a motion made tentative from years of practiced restraint, and Martin startles under his touch.

“Sorry,” Jon says, pulling back slightly—maybe it’s too soon, they’ve only just arrived at the house, and before then there had hardly been any time between the fog and the train, and there hasn’t been much room for them to talk about the words exchanged on that desaturated, numbing beach—but Martin catches his hand before it can retract completely. It’s so cold against Jon’s, even with his poor circulation, and it sends a shiver down his spine that’s only partly due to the chill.

“No, it… it’s okay,” Martin says, his face open and warm and full of a gentle wonder as he carefully laces his fingers with Jon’s. They begin to warm at the contact, and Jon knows Martin can feel it, because he lets out a little breath of contentment as a bit of color returns to his cheeks. “I… I suppose I’m just not used to being… around other people yet. But it- it’s good.” He pauses, uncertainty clear in the deep set of his eyebrows, before continuing, softer, “I… I’m glad I’m here, Jon. With you.”

That little, nagging voice in the back of Jon’s head, telling him that _loved_ was a thing of the past and that Martin had only accompanied him to chase away the tendrils of fog still clinging to his soul, dissipates with a whisper. For the first time in a very, very long while, a smile born only of peace and happiness comes across Jon’s face. “I’m glad you’re here as well,” he says, and then, because it doesn’t quite feel enough, he brings their interlocked hands to his lips and presses a soft kiss along Martin’s knuckles.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and when Jon looks up, he sees Martin’s face is flushed a rosy pink, his mouth open slightly in an expression of quiet astonishment. It occurs, then, to Jon that he’s missed Martin so very, very much. He’d thought a lot about missed opportunities and forgotten chances, in those months spent alone in the Archives after he’d awoken to the death of a former love and to the loss of one he’d only just recognized. He _should_ have done this; he _could_ have done that. Would things be different, he thought, if he’d been able to catch hold of those feelings that flitted about like fireflies, just out of reach yet burning so brightly in the dark, and recognized them for what they were? If he’d held Martin’s hand then, and promised him that he’d return, and finally put a name to the swirling lights that populated the night sky inside his mind?

Then, Martin’s hand is soft on Jon’s cheek, and the present returns, a reminder that choices made have been set in the amber of time and that, however the path, he’s here, now, with Martin, and that’s all that really matters, in the end. And when Martin says, with soft reverence in his voice, “I meant what I said, in the Lonely. I… I really do love you,” Jon can’t help but feel that he must have made some suitable choices. After all, this is the path they have led him down—to rolling fields spotted with grazing cows and rustic wooden planks that let in the drafts of the autumn winds and Martin next to him, his auburn curls turned brilliant orange by the glow of the fire and his eyes watching Jon with a tenderness that makes Jon’s heart ache in his chest. To, finally, something Jon could call happiness.

“Oh, Martin,” he says, and lets the book slide to the ground as he wraps his arms around Martin, like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver, like Martin is the air he needs to survive, like he’s floating and only Martin can ground him. In the crook of Martin’s neck, he murmurs, “I love you too.”

He can feel Martin smile against him. “What was that? I’m not sure I _quite_ caught it.”

Jon pulls back and looks Martin in the eye. Strongly, with intent, he says, “I love you, Martin. I- I’m sorry it took me so long to realize, to- to say it, but I’m saying it now. I- Christ, I- I’ve missed you _so much_.”

Martin’s eyes are wide and watery, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Jon worries that he’s gone too far—that it’s too bright a light against the fog of the Lonely that still clings to Martin, and that he’s touched an oversensitive nerve one too many times—but then Martin says, in barely more than a whisper, “Can… can I kiss you?”

Quietly, Jon says, “Please.”

Then, Martin’s lips are on his, and everything else melts into swirling loveliness.

It’s some time later, when they’re both fighting off yawns and the fire has burned low, that Jon remembers the single bedroom, with a queen-sized bed wide enough for two, presenting the opportunity for Jon to broach a subject that is still, at its core, a deeply nerve-wracking experience despite years of learned comfort and familiarity and identity. So, when Martin moves to stand from the couch, saying something about ‘really getting on’ and ‘finding pillows and sheets for the bed’, Jon places a tentative hand on his wrist to stop him.

“Martin, I… there’s something we need to talk about first.”

Martin looks at the hand on his wrist, then at the guarded expression on Jon’s face, and something saddened flits across his face, lightning-fast before it’s gone again. “Oh. Right, I- I suppose I’d just assumed… but I, I can grab an extra set of sheets for the couch, and you can take the bed if you’d like.”

Confusion passes through Jon, just for a moment, before it’s replaced with clarity. “Oh, no, I- that’s not what I meant, Martin. I… I would like to, er. Share, the bed, if you… if you’d be okay with that.”

Tim and Georgie had always told him he needed to ask for what he wanted. That he couldn’t remain silent and then get quietly upset when people didn’t act the way he would prefer they did. “I can’t read your mind, Jon,” Georgie had said with crossed arms and a tight frown. Tim had just looked sad and said, “How long has this been bothering you?” So Jon is… he’s trying. And it’s getting easier. Not _easy_ —just easier.

The look that flashes across Martin’s face can most accurately be described as relief. “Yeah, I- I’d like that. It… it would be nice to not be alone.”

It would be easy enough, now, to sidestep the discussion—to leave it at that, and retire to bed and huddle under the covers for warmth, and allow himself to press against Martin and remind himself that Martin’s still here, that they’re together and that they’re safe. But he knows it’ll only get harder the longer he puts it off. So, he takes a breath and continues, “I… yes, that would be… it’s, it’s not about the bed, Martin. What I, er. What I wanted to talk about.”

Eloquent as always. Perhaps there’ll be a time when this gets easier, but Jon thinks that that time will be far, far in the future.

“Okay,” Martin says with a sort of curiosity, settling more firmly back down on the couch. His hand moves to clasp Jon’s, a natural motion that feels born from years of practice. “Go ahead.”

Jon takes another breath, exhales, and says, “I’m not interested in sex.”

Martin’s face flushes a deep crimson, but he doesn’t say anything, so Jon continues, “Not- not just with you, but with anyone. It’s… it’s not something that I enjoy, and so I would prefer not to, er. Have intercourse.”

At this, Martin can’t quite suppress a snort. “’Intercourse’?”

It’s Jon’s turn to blush. “That _is_ the proper term for it, Martin. The _point_ is that I- I don’t want to have sex with you. Or anyone. Ever.”

Martin’s teasing smile softens into something gentler, and he says, “I know, Jon. You- you know I wasn’t trying to- to _proposition_ you or anything when I assumed that we’d be sharing the bed, right?”

“Yes, I _know_ , I just thought it would be important to—” Jon’s train of thought stops mid-sentence, and he rewinds. “Hold on. You _know_?”

The smile becomes sheepish. “Er… yeah. Georgie may have said something to Melanie, who said something to Basira, who may… have mentioned it to me? I’m sorry, I- I know it’s shit to be outed like that, and I- I’m still really, _really_ glad you told me—”

“No, Martin, it- it’s all right.” He’d heard that particular tape, unfortunately—he just hadn’t known that it had spread to Martin. “So, you’re… you’re okay with it?”

It’s becoming more and more apparent to Jon that, despite what those terrible romance novels would have him believe, sex is not, in fact, the ultimate goal of any relationship, and thus he needn’t ask whether his lack of interest in it negates any potential relationship. It feels like he needs to anyway.

Martin laughs gently and squeezes Jon’s hand. “Yeah, of course I’m _okay_ with it—I love you, Jon, how could I not be?”

A tension Jon hadn’t known he’d been holding slips away, and he squeezes Martin’s hand in return. “Just making sure.”

Martin’s smile is broken by another yawn, and it really _is_ getting on, so Jon slips out from under the blanket and stands, using their joined hands to pull Martin up with him. “Come on, then. Let’s go to bed.”

The sheets are warm and soft, and Martin is warm and soft as Jon curls into his side and breathes in the scent of saltwater and cotton, and the happiness that has nestled within his heart and has told him that he is safe and loved and _home_ guides him easily into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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